


Visitation of the Ghost

by GingerAndHyde



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: M/M, also known as Sad Doctor Gets Haunted, ever wonder what would happen if the trio of dead characters showed up as ghosts?, ghost au, more tags to be added as the story progresses, no?, well too bad I’m writing it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAndHyde/pseuds/GingerAndHyde
Summary: Dr. John Seward is handling the aftermath of the events involving a certain vampire perfectly well. The past is the past, and such things must be completely put behind one if one hopes to grow.Or so he tells himself.You can’t hide from your ghosts.(Ghost AU in which our trio of deceased characters return, one at a time, to set some things right. Also, eventual fruition of a certain interpretation of that “both happily married” line.)
Relationships: Arthur Holmwood/John Seward, eventually that is - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Visitation of the Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> I like ghosts. I like Dracula. I wish Dr. Seward would get better at being a person. 
> 
> There’s a way to solve this problem! 
> 
> I wrote most of this in the wee hours of the night (the best time in which to Ghost), so there may be a few slipups. Also, I am not above song lyric titles, so sue me.

Dr. Seward’s phonograph diary, 18 December

Pardon the lapse in entries. I have neglected my diary-keeping as of late. After the horrific events of the past year, I may quit the practice and all that reminds me of those terrors altogether. To do so could be to leave those shadows of the past behind me, where they belong. 

We returned from the journey to the Carpathians less than a week ago, waylaid by snow on the return journey and weighted down by the grief of our loss of Quincey Morris. Much of the journey back was spent in a heavy silence, reassuring one another with the solid nods and quiet support appropriate for men such as we. All experienced a universal relief of the lifting of the curse on Mrs. Harker. I can only wish that we could be feeling the same for poor Lucy, rather than reflecting back on what she had become in her final days on this earth...No, these thoughts must be cast to the wayside; they are further fetters on me now. I may ignore them, and I shall, but the morose spirit and sinking feeling in my chest have not yet departed. I cannot rest, so I turn to distraction. A modus operandi significantly impeded by the death of Renfield, since I have yet to find another pet case study; rather, I have found myself pacing the halls when free and paying closer attention on my rounds when possible, but little more. I haven’t yet had the time to do much further in-depth investigation into any of the other violent cases, seeing as we only just arrived back recently. 

As to the arrival- we, all as a group, returned to Purfleet after our solemn journey back from the Carpathians, spending two last nights together before Mr. and Mrs. Harker departed. It was to my understanding that Mrs. Harker could not stand to stay in the building that had been the venue of her horrible encounter with that monster, and she and her husband had decided unanimously to return to their new home in Exeter to recuperate together away from the sites of their fears, and intend to remain close in touch. I suspect they may feel themselves in need of emotional fortification after these events. Lord Godalming accompanied them to the station to see them off safely before returning to Purfleet. He remains here, in another room. He has reason enough to return to his own estate, where the staff and conditions are adequate, but he has had personal effects sent up and intends to stay for some time, having asked me if this would be a suitable arrangement. I believe it may be the weight of the losses of his father, Lucy, and Quincey that wear on the man so. I offer my staunch and silent alliance, which is all that a man can do in times of darkness and weakness such as these. 

Van Helsing remains, intending to return to Amsterdam once stability seems more guaranteed. On the first day spent back in Purfleet, he resided mostly in a sitting room, seated in an armchair, in the exact condition as he had been when I left the room as when I had entered. I had intended to speak to the man and again thank him for all the help he had been to us, the steady guiding hand he had become, when he cut me off. 

“Friend John,” he had said in a warm, firm tone I have become much acquainted with over these past months, “Subjects such as these are rare to be uncomplicated. There is often more, as is said, more than meets the eye. And the heaviness on your heart, and of our dear friend, Lord Godalming, it worries me much. And so I remain.” He said this in the attitude of one already convinced of a truth, but a beneficial one, measures taken for one’s own good. 

“But, Professor,” I had protested- though that may not be the correct phrasing, as my tone was not one of argument- “What could there possibly be? More than meets the eye...surely you do not mean to say that our troubles with that beast have not yet ended?” The very idea brought all the blood from my face, which I could feel growing colder in its pallor. 

“Not with him, no,” Van Helsing said, shutting his eyes lightly as does one deep in thought, a pensive look on his face, “But there may always be more. The future loves to bring surprises, and when he brings them, he often brings many. So we may want to be ready for him, though not on edge. We cannot live in fear, either, but the balance- to find the balance, to live with wisdom.” This sentiment was demonstrated as he opened his eyes and held his hand before him, wobbling it for a moment before stabilizing it, steadying it like a ship on a smooth sea. “And you,” he recommenced. “I worry for you and the others much, Friend John. I stay until I know I am needed not, is all. Perhaps days only.” And he closed his eyes again with a sigh, sitting back in the chair. He looked almost weary, mouth falling into a line and the white almost seeming more pronounced among the red of his hair. To be fair to the man, he had been worked to the bone with the stress of late, and had bore most of it up with a brave face and a hopeful resilience which had, with the benevolent influence of Mrs. Harker, kept our cadre afloat. Leaving him to his much-needed rest, I came away, departing to my study to make this entry. 

Walking through these halls is somehow not as it once was. They feel colder and are sometimes torn through with what must be the winter chill, as the lights sometimes flicker and die without warning, which they have not done often before. It is as though traces of that horrible night still remain; though I know it to be only the games of a fearful imagination, I fancied earlier to have experienced the feeling of someone peering over my shoulder- practically breathing down my neck. On reflex, I whirled about, with some part of my mind still in shock almost fearing a flesh-and-blood creature waiting to sink its teeth into my neck, but I was met with only a drafty breeze. This building always has been a bit on the colder side, anyhow. 

19 Dec. 

The winter is biting into us with full force now. Snow began to fall some time last night and has not ceased, continuing into this morning. The chill permeates the halls in drafts and blistering winds, and I frequently find the air around myself growing suddenly cold with an external chill. I have taken to wearing a scarf indoors when in private, where I cannot be seen doing so, to protect the skin of my neck and throat from the breeze, which feels uncomfortably like the breath of someone standing close behind me. The hallways seem more profoundly empty than ever, yet I cannot shake the feeling of being watched. It is as though I expect a pair of eyes to be viewing me from around every corner, though this sounds more like the words of a patient here than a practitioner. I suppose it to only be the anxious aftereffects of the experiences of danger so recently experienced. Within my chest is that familiar weight which has been a constant companion since Lucy’s death and before. 

_Later._ All seem somewhat restless. Van Helsing has been pacing through the halls of the building, revisiting in particular rooms which had harbored some of the more awful events, among them being our meeting space, Renfield’s old room, and the room occupied by the Harkers. Every so often he would stop in one of the rooms and gaze into it with half-lidded eyes and an odd expression, sometimes shaking his head and moving along, occasionally muttering under his breath as though observing on or speaking to nothing. After seeing him do this for the third time or so, I paused and asked him what he was doing. 

“Reflecting,” he had answered enigmatically, withdrawing and closing the door behind him. “As said. The future may bring the new, but the past leaves the old, and we can learn from him.” I frowned. 

“Well, yes. We have the notes. But would it not be best to leave such memories behind us?”

“They cannot be pushed away,” he responded solemnly, “as you know full well. You can ignore, but you cannot hide from your ghosts.”

“Nothing haunts me. All is well. I am fine,” I clarified. And I stand by this; none of these issues or weights warrant such concern, nor should they be paid it. These uncomfortabilities can, should, and shall be left behind me. He nodded slowly. 

“If you judge it to be so.” 

20 Dec. 

Professor Van Helsing left this morning, giving Art and I each a hearty pat on the back and an almost fatherly embrace, along with an avowal that he will always be only a wire away, before departing into the snow. This left only myself and Godalming of our party, and we have not yet heard further word from the Harkers. 

The heaviness refuses to leave me. A constant companion, this shadow of a dull aching in my chest renders me feeling cavernous and empty. I sought something to fill it last night, turning once more to that chemical Morpheus. Chloral, though not the healthiest of habits, delivers what it promises, carrying me swiftly to a deep, much-needed sleep. 

To fill the void in the waking hours, however, I again took to my rounds for the sake of study. There are a number of patients with less common maladies, though none enough to warrant my special attention or a case study. The most likely contender for a new center of my focus would be the unfortunate creature suffering from an intense and debilitating hypochondria and displaying compulsive sanitary behaviours, though this may only occupy my attention for some time. 

While on my rounds, I suppose I may have grown lost among my thoughts, for I found my fingertips on the doorknob to an unoccupied room out of force of habit. The room was previously occupied by Renfield, left abandoned after his death, and has since been left vacant. The room must be draftier than the rest, as I was met with a bite of cold air immediately upon my entry. I stood in the doorway and surveyed it once more. It has been emptied of all personal relics, including that box and notebook of his, and cleaned, removing all bloodstains. My eyes found their way to the place on the floor where we had found him, injured; my gaze then turned to a few feet away, where the body had been found after the Count had returned to him and finished it all in our absence. No trace of the struggle remained. It was as though all vestiges of the dead man, down to the very fingerprints, had been washed away, and now existed solely in my memory. Memory, though I loathed it so, was yet keenly felt, as though the patient himself was in the room with me. For an instant, gazing around the empty room, I could almost envision him dwelling within it again rather than residing six feet under the soil. Indeed, it seemed as though at any moment, I could expect to hear that familiar voice speak up behind me in its alternate supplicative or scathing tones. Common sense, of course, reminded me that it was time enough to find a new central focus and leave this room and all memory it may contain behind me. I departed with an involuntary shudder. 

_Later, evening._ Lord Godalming and I took supper together, alone again, save for the staff and his terriers, which trotted around the table and sniffed at the air in the vain hope that a morsel would be tossed their way. Their efforts went largely unrewarded, or so it seemed, until I became conscious of repeated motions on Art’s part to discreetly slip trimmings under the table in the folds of a napkin. Conversation was attempted at lighter things, though that same shadow as before seemed to haunt us. The house, though full of staff, attendants, and patients, seemed empty and hollow, though this was perhaps only the effect of our perspective warped by grief. Doctor Hennessy had been taking on my duties while I was away and was presently on a much-needed evening off. Lord Godalming made no comment on the vacancy of our dwelling, though it was plain in his manner, as he seemed more relaxed and natural than he would be were we in some crowd. We eventually fell into a comfortable quiet. 

“...Do you think that we are truly done with these horrible endeavors?” asked he, breaking the pause and setting aside his utensils. “That this is the end of it?”

I spent a moment gazing into my glass in thought. “Yes,” I said slowly, attempting to mask any uneasiness in my voice. “We have done as Van Helsing had said, and he had said he would not leave until he was confident that we were safe. I believe him to be an honest man. If he deems it done, and acts as such, I take him at his word.” Godalming nodded. 

“If you say so.” He sighed, leaning over and ruffling the ears of one of the dogs. “...Jack, allow me to be perfectly frank. Do you not feel the pain- feel the losses? You seem so impassive and- well, you resumed your work on rounds so soon…”

“It is my duty to do so,” I said, laying down my fork. “I have a sanitorium to run. Patients to attend to, and tasks much neglected in our absence.” 

“Do you not mourn?”

“I do.”

“Why do you not much show it?” His voice was threaded through with emotion of his own, and for a moment, I feared that he may fall into tears as he had in the immediacy after Lucy’s death. He did not, however, instead fixing me in a confused and intense gaze. My breath caught in my throat at the tone, though I did not show this, and quickly regained my outward neutrality. 

“I show what I deem appropriate,” I answered. He cast a hand in the air despairingly. 

“You see this indifference as acceptable? For the woman you _loved?_ For our _friend?”_ he cried, a choke in his voice. 

For a moment, we sat in silence. 

“I am not indifferent,” I said quietly, rising without another word. I soon excused myself to my office, where I completed some of my written tasks, drafted a letter to the Board of Governors regarding the duties left to the others in my absence, and recorded this diary. As I settled into my chair, I again felt that horrible sensation of being watched, with a closed and greater intensity than before. It was almost as though I could expect to look up into a pair of critical eyes. A chill and its accompanying shudder ran through me. I can afford to be personal here and state honestly that I am inclined to believe that this is some manifestation of the judgement levied by Art, though it could perhaps be more kindly called an honest criticism. He claims that I do not mourn. The loss of Lucy sinks my heart in my chest like an anchor in a storm, and the death of Quincey does weigh heavily on me, but I haven’t the time nor the manly fortitude to consider that which belongs behind me. The third deceased, my pet patient, was of little personal consequence, and the largest effect of his death on my life is the loss of a case study. If there is any indifference there, it is no crime of mine, is it? A question of the rhetorical variety. 

In summation, loss may be acknowledged, but to delve into unnecessary agonies would be to imprison myself in the world of shadows and nightmares we have only just escaped. 

I shall re-listen to some of the cylinders pertaining to relevant material on the aforementioned obsessive hypochondriac. I need not worry of mentions of past pains, since all cylinders related to such topics had been destroyed by the Count on that hellish night that almost made Mrs. Harker one of his own. The manuscript prepared by that woman is the only surviving copy of those records. Unless I find it necessary to revisit my notes on the patient Renfield due to another zoophagous case, which would be highly unlikely, I will not be revisiting those recordings again. All of those matters are laid to rest with the deceased. 

_21 Dec. One in the morning. Paper and pencil._

I keep this entry in this medium for reasons that will imminently become evident. Usage of my phonograph is now impossible and dreaded more than revisiting those long nights of hell. 

I fear for my very mind. My hand shakes unsteadily and these lines are doubtlessly illegible in their messiness, but I had to record this and to get it out, if only to chronologize the progression of some horrible anomaly of my own psychological faculties. I have heard and seen what can only be morbid hallucinations of a dreadful variety. I refuse to consider the alternative. Let all be stated exactly here. 

As promised in my last entry made by phonograph, I intended to revisit previous cylinders, and did. Seated in my study and nursing a brandy by the dim light of a lamp, I had listened to the first two cylinders with little difficulty, mulling over the details in my mind, which seemed to be functioning perfectly well at the time. 

When I placed on the third cylinder, the light in the lamp flickered, dimmed, and died. I thought little of it, as the fireplace provided light enough. I resumed my place in my chair by my desk, sorting through papers on the patient, and the cylinder began to play as ordinary. Several minutes in, however, the recording ceased, playing only a staticky, blank sound, not unlike rain on a rooftop. I believed it to be a pause, but the recording did not start up again. 

The fire in the fireplace spluttered and hissed as though water had been poured on it as a cold gust of wind intruded down the chimney, with the flames darting up and down unsteadily before sinking into embers, which became cold and dark almost instantly. I grew tense at the sudden chill and darkness, bringing arms and with them my papers up to my chest reflexively, my eyes searching the room. The machine continued producing nothing but the occasional clicking sound as I sat, perfectly still and silent, searching the dark. 

After the moment in empty darkness, the phonograph ticked back into life. 

_“Hello, doctor. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”_

The voice of R.M. Renfield was speaking out of the machine. 

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
